


And The Walls Come Crumbling Down

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, Dimstrade - Freeform, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, background Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg hadn’t been impressed, the first time he saw him. Dimmock, brand new DI, freshly promoted, and as eager as Greg was, years ago. It was like seeing himself, only years younger. It was a strange sense of deja vu. So Greg introduced himself. Took Dimmock underneath his wing. Helped him. Even sent Sherlock his way. Because the last thing he wanted was to see Dimmock crash and burn. See him burn out, give up, like the good ones. Like what Greg fought so hard against, each and every day.</p>
<p>It grated on him, his job. As much as he loved protecting the weak, it was tiring, seeing London’s worst, each and every day. It wore on him. Wore him down, until there was almost nothing left. Worse, there was the politics. The endless paperwork. Donovan calling him saying “Sir, there’s been another one.” Having to drop all of the paperwork to go investigate a new murder that just added to the pile. Long nights. Barely home.</p>
<p>So when the signs appeared that his wife was cheating on him, he couldn’t lie and say he was surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Walls Come Crumbling Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> So my lovely, lovely beta Dreig has been working on coursework and I wanted to write something to cheer her up.
> 
> Well...
> 
> Enter this giant piece of angsty DImstrade. It was originally supposed to be fluffy, and...well, you can see how well /that/ turned out.
> 
> Trigger warnings for alcoholism, depression, and adultery (do you need trigger warnings for that? Eh, better safe than sorry).
> 
> The title for this fic is inspired by 'Pompeii' by Bastille.

Greg hadn’t been impressed, the first time he saw him. Dimmock, brand new DI, freshly promoted, and as eager as Greg was, years ago. It was like seeing himself, only years younger. It was a strange sense of deja vu. So Greg introduced himself. Took Dimmock underneath his wing. Helped him. Even sent Sherlock his way. Because the last thing he wanted was to see Dimmock crash and burn. See him burn out, give up, like the good ones. Like what Greg fought so hard against, each and every day.

It grated on him, his job. As much as he loved protecting the weak, it was tiring, seeing London’s worst, each and every day. It wore on him. Wore him down, until there was almost nothing left. Worse, there was the politics. The endless paperwork. Donovan calling him saying “Sir, there’s been another one.” Having to drop all of the paperwork to go investigate a new murder that just added to the pile. Long nights. Barely home.

So when the signs appeared that his wife was cheating on him, he couldn’t lie and say he was surprised. He couldn’t even lie to the junkie that had started crashing his crime scenes, spouting off what Greg was pretty sure were random bits of nonsense before wandering off. But what the junkie didn’t know was that Greg Lestrade was neither an idiot nor quite as stupid as the junkie wanted to believe. If he had learned much, it was how to find someone, especially someone who didn’t want to be found.

That was how Sherlock Holmes became the consulting detective (unofficially, of course), for Scotland Yard. Other DIs had tried to gain his opinions, tried to ask him questions, only to be completely, utterly rebuffed. Not that Greg minded, really. He liked being needed. Being necessary. The only one that the utter berk would put up with. It distracted him from how utterly shitty things were at home. How his wife was rarely there anymore. Which worked out, since neither was he.

Then the Van Coon case came along, and Dimmock, fresh-faced, as eager as Greg had ever been, was out of his depth. So Greg lent him Sherlock. Lectured the now clean, now side-kick clad consulting detective. And Sherlock minded his manners. Mostly. He was rude, and snappish, and kicked puppy-Dimmock in the metaphorical face, but there was much he could have said that he didn’t. The case had been wrapped up, ignoring a few loose ends, and everyone had been satisfied.

Even Greg, who had spent long nights in the office, finishing paperwork. Dimmock was there, too. Occasionally he would come over, inquire as to the proper procedure for this piece of paperwork and that. Greg liked to flatter himself, think that Dimmock asked him because he respected him, looked up to him. That he was interested in the older DI. Dimmock wasn’t ugly. He was handsome in his own way, eager and enthusiastic, and had an air to him, all exhilaration and adrenaline, that made Greg want to shag him senseless.

The younger constables joked about him being a ‘silver fox’, but Greg didn’t feel like one. He felt old, like someone’s grandfather. Used. Discarded. Left out to dry. It certainly felt that way, with no one waiting for him at home. His wife was his, was supposed to be there - according to a piece of paper. What good did a piece of paper do, trying to tell him how to live his life? She went through boyfriends like candy, and Greg would keep his eyes out, keep track of who it was. It was like stabbing himself in the heart every time he saw her with a new one. But he did it anyway.

Then it happened.

They were at a Christmas party for the yard, not long after Sherlock had thrown his wife’s infidelity in Greg’s face, mocked him, made it so that everyone knew. It had taken all of Greg’s self-control to not smash the bastard across the face. But that wouldn’t solve anything. To give them credit, the party-goers had looked horrified. Appalled. Greg almost pitied them. From an outsider’s perspective, it probably looked like Sherlock wasn’t pulling his punches, like he was hitting Greg where it hurt. But he wasn’t. It was a reminder, in Sherlock’s twisted way. Greg had to look out for himself. Do what made him happy. Or something.

Greg could figure it out later when he wasn’t most of the way to being drunk. “Cheers?” he asked Dimmock, lifting his latest pint. The other DI grinned, knocked glasses, and they drank. Silence reigned for a few moments, and Greg sipped the remnants of his pint slowly. Thoughtfully. He could feel Dimmock’s thigh against his. Warm. Tempting. “Wife’s cheating on me,” Greg told the pint. He could feel Dimmock’s eyes on him, could practically feel the sympathy. “Has been, for bloody ages.” 

“Let’s get you home,” Dimmock murmured after some time had passed, slinging an arm around Greg’s shoulders once the older DI had let go of his latest pint.

“I can walk on my own,” Greg grumbled, but he didn’t protest. Dimmock’s arm was warm around him, and Greg wanted to lean into it, wanted to push up against Dimmock, feel someone against him that wanted him, that needed him. Things he no longer had. They made it out of the pub before Greg stumbled. Purposefully, of course. His skin felt tingly. Oversensitive. The more Dimmock touched him, the more Greg wanted it. Wanted the other man spread out naked against him.

Greg had been watching him, that night. And although Dimmock wasn’t quite as drunk, Greg had a feeling that he was just on the right side of drunk for Greg to get what he wanted. Once they were standing, Greg turned, pinning Dimmock against the wall, bodies flush against each other. Their eyes locked, and Greg’s stomach did a lazy flip, fluttered, anticipation coursing through him. He hadn’t felt like this in years, hadn’t felt giddy, wanting, wanted. Not since he started dating - her. But that was years past, and things were different now.

So fucking different.

He leaned forward, eye contact and anticipation heightening the pleasant buzz of the alcohol, and their lips connected. Dimmock tensed underneath him, startled but not pulling away. Good. Greg continued to kiss him slowly, softly, gentle, closed-mouth kisses until the younger DI parted his lips, allowed Greg to lick his way into his mouth, deepening the kiss. They kissed until Greg was weak in the knees, until he gasped for breath when they parted. Dimmock’s lips were red, his hair mussed, and Greg was certain that he painted a similar picture.

“There are two options,” he murmured prosaically, his voice low and rough. “I can go home, and bring out the whisky, and get drunk enough to forget all of this. Or we can go to your flat, and you can fuck me.” Colour rose high in Dimmock’s cheeks, and Greg couldn’t deny the unfiltered thought that it made the younger man look rather adorable. “Which one, hmm?”

Dimmock hesitated for a moment. Greg could see the war in his eyes, the way his gaze flickered to Greg’s hand, to the wedding band - nothing but a string of broken promises. He could also feel Dimmock’s erection against him, could feel how much Dimmock wanted him, could taste it when they kissed. It was all there. Greg just had to wait for events to tip in his favour, for Dimmock to come to his senses and take him home and fuck him senseless. “I live this way,” Dimmock muttered, nodding his head in the other direction. Greg grinned.

They fell into a rhythm, eventually. Two or three times a week they would end up at Dimmock’s flat, moving against each other until they would collapse on the sheets, worn out and sweaty. Greg never stayed. He’d nod at Dimmock, get dressed, and leave, wandering back to his (usually) empty flat and, if he didn’t have to work the next day, drink until he couldn’t think about anything at all. Couldn’t think about how fucked up his life was. How it had been fucked up for longer than he cared to remember.

Sometimes his wife would be home. More often than not she wouldn’t be. They didn’t see each other, not much. They shagged, once or twice. Pretended they were married. A very vague, fucked-up version of marital happiness. Then she would go to her boyfriend, and Greg would go to his. It was a downward spiral he had been pulled into, and one that he had no idea how to get out of. Part of him was tempted to end it all. To make everything go away. It was skirting the edge of too much to handle. He hated her. He hated his life. He hated Dimmock for being so fucking shaggable that Greg just couldn’t resist him.

But most of all, he hated himself.

It didn’t help that Sherlock could read it all, could see from Greg’s expression what he was thinking, what he was going through. Greg could read Sherlock in return, see the faint flickers of his expression that betrayed concern more than contempt, no matter what the consulting detective said. And so Greg continued. He stayed at Dimmock’s more and more. Stayed home less and less. Pretended to be alive. To have a will to live. To function. To exist.

But really, it was all a ruse, and it would come crumbling down sooner rather than later.

It was a harsh blow, when his wife’s divorce lawyer came to Dimmock’s flat rather than his own. Greg had heard the knock on the door, had ignored it in favour of pushing back against - whatever Dimmock was. His lover? Greg didn’t care to think too much about it, not pleasantly tipsy and in the middle of a fantastic shag. Instead, getting ready to leave, he had spotted the manilla folder on the floor with his name on it. Inside were the papers. The papers that signified the end of his sham of a marriage.

When he got home, he drank enough so that he didn’t feel. Didn’t remember anything. He had work the next day, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered. The walls were crumbling, the last barrier between his ‘real’ life and the life he had been living. He called in. Was able to get a week off, last minute. His supervisor had gone through his first divorce a year ago. Could sympathise. Greg thanked him, numbly, and hung up.

He didn’t leave his flat, except to fetch more alcohol. He maybe ate. He wasn’t really sure. Didn’t remember. It didn’t matter, and he didn’t really care. He didn’t see Dimmock. Didn’t hear from him. And that was fine, because Greg didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want a reminder of just how far he had fallen. He took another swig from the whiskey bottle and laughed. It was bloody hilarious. He was just like his old man, seduced by the bottle. A drunk. It was a road he was familiar with. A spiral he couldn’t escape from. Greg wasn’t even sure why he had tried. Why he had fought, for a while.

Laying in a stupor on the couch, Greg didn’t hear the knock on the door. Didn’t hear someone picking the locks. Didn’t hear him come in, didn’t see him stand there, watching him. Pitying him. His eyes fluttered closed, the alcohol taking its toll on his system, and the bottle rolled off of his chest, landing on the floor. That was the last thing he remembered.

When he woke up he was on his bed, Dimmock sat on a chair not far away. He had a book on his lap and was apparently absorbed by it. Greg sat up slowly, grimacing as his head pounded. His stomach lurched, and he stumbled up, heading straight for the bathroom. Falling to his knees by the toilet, he retched, emptying his stomach contents into the unforgiving porcelain bowl. Dimmock was right beside him, a washcloth in his hand, and he smoothed Greg’s sweat-soaked hair out of his face, hands unbearably gentle.

“Why the fuck are you here?” Greg snapped, his stomach rolling as he fought waves of nausea.

“To look after you,” Dimmock replied simply. He settled on the edge of the bath. Greg bit back a retort as he vomited again, gagging at the bile left in his throat. Dimmock nudged him, offered him a glass of water. Greg glared at him but took it. It felt like an invasion of privacy, having him there. They had shagged, yeah, and Greg had practically been living at his place for months now, but - this was different. This was Greg’s home. Dimmock didn’t belong there.

“I’ll leave a list of symptoms on the table for you to watch out for, Detective Inspector.” John Watson’s familiar voice sounded from the door, and Greg groaned. Fuck. Was nothing sacred anymore? Not even hangovers?

“What the fuck are you doing here, John?” Greg couldn’t even turn to look at him, couldn’t bear John seeing him like this. No one needed to see anything more than he could show.

“It’s an intervention. Isn’t that what friends do?” Sherlock’s cool, collected voice sounded from the same direction, and Greg’s hands balled into fists. Of all the times Sherlock had refused to learn about ignorant human customs, he had to pick this one. “You have a drinking problem, Lestrade.”

“No I don’t,” Greg muttered, the words flowing easily off his tongue. It was true. He didn’t have a problem.

“Let me put it this way, so your alcohol-addled mind can understand,” Sherlock said mock-pleasantly. “Either you plan to detox with John and DI Dimmock’s assistance, or I will lock you in this room and have John monitor things externally.”

“You’re a bastard.” Greg turned his head to glare at Sherlock. The small movement prompted another wave of nausea, and he retched into the bowl of the toilet. “Dimmock, you’re dismissed. Go to work.”

“No,” Dimmock replied from where he was sitting. He had picked up the cup of water that Greg had sat down, and was holding it where Greg could easily reach it.

“Insubordinate,” Greg grumbled.

“No, sir,” Dimmock said instead, and John bit back a chuckle.

“Get out,” Greg said, his voice louder, firmer.

“I don’t think so,” John answered.

Greg took a deep breath in through his nose. His arm was on the edge of the porcelain bowl, allowing himself to rest his head, to breathe, to relax. “Go. Dimmock - Dimmock can text you if any sort of medical help is needed.”

Silence reigned for a moment, before he felt movement around him. A long-fingered hand - Sherlock’s hand - carefully gripped his shoulder. It was a wordless support, vague encouragement, and then Sherlock withdrew. It was haunting, how many times Greg had done that for Sherlock. Had sat there with him, watching the thin, ragged man come down from a high, only to shoot up the moment he got access again. Greg had lost track of how many times Sherlock had tried to detox. “Come, John,” Sherlock murmured. He turned to Dimmock for a moment, fixing him with a stare Greg could see out of the corner of his eyes. The taller man didn’t say anything, just stared, and then turned around and left.

Greg closed his eyes and just sat there on the floor, poised at any moment to lift his head to vomit again. The silence spooled out between them, making Greg’s stomach clench uncomfortably. It was almost too much to handle on top of the nausea. “You were using me, weren’t you?” Dimmock said, his tone almost conversational. Greg’s hands, already clenched into a fist, tensed, nails digging into the skin of his palms. “It’s alright,” he murmured, reaching out with careful hands and unclenching Greg’s fists, ensuring that he hadn’t cut himself. “I’m not stupid.”

It wasn’t fair, Greg wanted to say. It was horrible of him to use another person like that. To fuck someone’s brains out because you were mad at your wife. But Greg stayed silent. If he admitted that, if he admitted something, he was afraid more would come out, and he didn’t know what the more was. The thread would unravel, and he would be left with nothing but a oft-broken heart.

“Your hands are shaking.” Dimmock stroked the back of Greg’s palm for a moment, the movement so tender that Greg almost flinched. He didn’t deserve that level of affection. He didn’t deserve anything from Dimmock. As much as he liked the younger man, as much as he didn’t mind being around him - the shame and guilt were overruling everything, and he wanted to shut down, get away. “You probably won’t be able to sleep much. The headache won’t go away, not for a while. Tremours, more nausea. John left some meds that might be able to take care of that, but no guarantee.” He sighed. “If we’re lucky, you won’t have to be hospitalised.”

Greg opened his eyes, staring at the white of the seat. “You’ve done this before,” he said tonelessly.

Dimmock chuckled, but there was something to the tone that Greg didn’t like. “My dad. Chronic alcoholic. Tried to quit. Mum left when I was eleven, so I had to keep an eye on him when he withdrew. He died shortly after I turned sixteen. Heart attack in the throes of withdrawal finally killed him.” Greg didn’t know what to say. What was there to say to that?

“Why are you here?” Greg shifted so that he was more comfortable, so his legs weren’t tucked uncomfortably underneath him.

“Let me go get your meds.” Dimmock stood and left the bathroom without answering, leaving Greg to his thoughts. He returned after a few moments, two tablets in his hand, and he offered them to Greg along with the cup of water. Settling back on the side of the bath, Dimmock didn’t touch Greg this time. Greg watched him out of the side of his eyes. He seemed distant. Thinking. “Why do you think I’m here?” he asked finally.

Greg opened his mouth, then shut it. He closed his eyes, willing his mind to work, to think. Everything was laid out in front of him. Their first kiss. The subsequent kisses. The way Dimmock would sink into him, groan at Greg’s every whimper, kiss the words from Greg’s mouth. The way, once they finished, Dimmock would hold him close, one single moment, until Greg pushed him away, pushed away what they could have been, and went home to his now ex wife.

How Dimmock had gained his reputation for saying little and seeing everything. Brash and eager he had been, but Dimmock was not the same boy that had entered the Yard. He was a man, and he had accepted Greg for all that he could give him. For all that was possible to give him. He had taken what Greg had offered and asked for nothing in return. Greg couldn’t think of the last time that someone had offered him something that was worth that much. It was something he would probably never see again. Someone who loved another person, mind and soul, and who would do whatever it took to get them. Who would accepted the fallen and the broken, take them in, and hold them up.

“You know, don’t you?” Dimmock mused, an elbow on his knee holding his chin up. His warm eyes were on Greg’s face, and they met momentarily when Greg snuck a glance at him. “It’s written all over your face.”

Greg felt exposed. Stripped bare. It was almost like Sherlock, but there was - something caring to it. Like he was safe. Dimmock was there for him. To take care of him. He wasn’t going to be alone again, not if he accepted the hand that was offered to him. The bigger question - was did he deserve the hand that was being offered? After all he had done, after all he had risked, all he had taken - he didn’t deserve the hand that was being offered. But it was. It was being offered without strings. Without assumptions.

Did he feel the same way? Greg searched, and searched deep. Past the denial. The self-hatred. The loathing. Past the fact that sometimes he pushed people away because he could. Because the fear of being hurt was worse than what he could gain, if it worked. Then he saw it. It had started as a slow burn, long ago. From the first moment he had seen the other man, seen how he changed from a boy to the DI he had become. Dimmock wasn’t someone Greg had to look out for, not anymore. He was strong and surviving, and Greg had fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with him.

It was there, in the way that his body shivered as Dimmock fucked him. In the way that Greg caught himself watching the younger man from the confines of his office, studying how he moved, the way he regarded his paperwork, the way he interacted with the other constables. In was in the way that Greg wanted to curl up with him, wanted to sleep with him, just sleep, no sex - but didn’t, because that was sentiment and he had seen exactly where that dangerous path could lead him.

“Yes,” he said slowly. Carefully he lifted his head, eyes seeking Dimmock’s and finding them. A slow smile spread over the other man’s face, something warm and ragged. It was a gift, one Greg didn’t deserve, but like the selfish man he was, he would soak up Dimmock’s love and affection eagerly and without hesitation. It was offered, and therefore, his to take.

The following days, weeks, months, years - none of them were easy. Alcohol detoxification took a toll on both of them, and the tremours never fully left Greg’s hands. Not enough to be completely noticeable, unless one went looking for it, but it was there. It was in the way Greg stroked Dimmock’s face in bed at night, in the way he cut himself shaving until Dimmock insisted on taking over for him. Greg put up a bit of a fuss - he did like his independence, after all - but the little moments of shared intimacy were never something he would refuse.

Eventually they found a new flat, one that didn’t have bad memories for either of them. Greg still wasn’t certain as to how he had not gotten fired, not after the weeks off required to detox him completely. The issues he had been hiding with alcohol, however, never completely left. Sometimes Greg had bad nights. Insomnia. Anxiety. Dimmock would stay with him, would hold him, would cradle him until something worked and he was able to sleep.

Greg retired first, stayed in London, in their flat, until Dimmock joined him. They moved to the countryside, away from the hustle and bustle, to a little farm with a small flock of chickens and a few goats. There was also a cow (which Greg fondly called Hudders). They took in a few rescue animals, and soon had a pack of dogs that followed them everywhere. John and Sherlock came to check in on them, on Greg, although neither would admit it. Sherlock (of course) just came to check on the small bit of land he had reserved for beekeeping not far away. That he came to visit them as the years passed was something he refused to talk about. All in all, it was a good life for two retired DIs. 

Years passed, and eventually they made their vows. For better, or for worse. For richer or for poorer. Until death did they part.

And those were promises they cherished for the rest of their lives.


End file.
